Putting Words in Our Mouths
I do not choose and do not opt
that any of your prompts be cropped,
I know that your third word is crop
(whose past tense I have put up top,
knowing that it wouldn’t do
to alter any words that you
picked to give us as a test,
because I know that you know best.)
So know that I did not intend
to add that “ped” and thus offend.
I wrote it in addition to
the “crop” word provided by you.
The words for the Three Things Challenge are choose, opt and crop.
This is one of three guitars I decorated for the “Guitar Gallery” in Ajijic. It was covered in mirrors and silver ornamentation. It was purchased by a gallery in Montana. If you ever see it, please let me know where its new home is.
If Only I Could Play Guitar
At times when now I only hum,
I’d pull out my guitar and strum;
and by the time that I’d be done,
completing my last pluck and run,
perhaps whoever sees and hears
would be reduced to sobs and tears
by every perfect tone and note,
the sentiments that I emote,
and tender lyrics that they knew
because of course I wrote them, too.
But I would be so humble still,
(my hubris would be less than nil)
that when they laud me at the Grammys,
I’ll be home curled up in my jammies—
still unaffected by my fame,
astonished at my new acclaim!
And when Bob Dylan asks me if
I’d like to come and share a riff,
of course I will not turn him down.
In spite of all my new renown,
I’ll take the time to show him some
new ways I’ve found to pick and strum.
Mick Jagger would hang out with me
(and Leo Kottke, probably.)
We’d get together to talk and jam.
The whole world would know who I am!
My fame would spread to presidents
and queens and Knob Hill residents.
I’d be so busy that I fear
my writing would fall in arrears.
I might forget to feed my dog,
forsake my friends, neglect my blog.
So all things taken to account,
as negatives begin to mount,
and though I know that I’d go far
should I decide to play guitar,
I’ve penned a note unto myself,
“Put that guitar back on the shelf!!!”
The dVerse Poets prompt is to write a poem about music. I admit that this is actually a poem I wrote nine years ago so I am guessing few who now read my blog have seen it before.
To read more poems on this subject go HERE.
The muse of painting, on the Opera House in Guanajuato, Mexico
Here is Martha’ Kennedy’s, prompt that came in response to my “Demused” poem:
“My muse got the word from yours that she’d like you to start at least ONE poem with, “Tell me O Muse” She just wants a little acknowledgement.”
I’ve never turned down a prompt yet, Martha’s Muse, so here is your poem of acknowledgement:
To Martha’s Muse
Tell me, O Muse, if it is you
telling my muse what to do
to spur me to get off my duff
and write lines that are good enough
to meet the current status quo,
instead of being just “so-so?”
If so, please let me know it’s me
penning the lines, and not just she.
So if she sickens, dies or just
loses her poetic thrust,
I can make it on my own
to write a poem that’s fully blown!!!!
This frees her and also me
from interdependency.
Frees her to leave me all alone
to find “amusement” on her own,
and once she’s off to do her roaming,
I’ll practice independent poeming!
Though in the past I’ve been bemused,
when on occasion I’ve been de-mused,
I’ll take my genius off the shelf
and write my poems all by myself.
(And though, dear muse, freedom is thine,
I’ll claim my credits as purely mine!!!!)
Though Martha’s muse probably ain’t
just one of words, but also paint,
I hope that she has room enough
for all my muse’s extra stuff,
for as she departed, slamming doors,
she said she’s off to knock on yours!!!!
Demused
My muse is on sabbatical. I think she’s feeling surly
from umpteen years of being awakened way too early
to find a rhyme for “rainbow ” that my readers judge sublime,
only to discover every single time
that I get all the credit for the work she does
each new day in succession. And why? Simply because
she happened to be sanctified and then assigned to me
to insure a steady flow of poetry
without making an agreement regarding who’d be credited
as author of the poems conceived, then written and edited.
So now I seek to rectify my decades-long misdeed
by saying that hereafter, I certify and cede
half the writing credits to my muse of inspiration,
hoping the result will be she’ll come home from vacation,
refreshed, newly-inspired and forgiving of my sin,
full of new ideas and ready to begin.
Prompts today are succession, surly, sabbatical, sanctify, arise and rainbow. Image by j Jo Justino on Pixabay.
Writer’s Block
This poem will go unspoken, unwritten, unconceived.
It will have no mentor by which it’s been received.
It won’t be manufactured to become a hot bestseller,
in fact it won’t be read by you nor any other feller!
This poem’s an ice-blocked river with words jammed up inside it—
each word imbricated with a word stacked up beside it.
I just don’t have the wherewithal by which I can procure them
and turn them into poems where you might have to endure them!
Prompt words today are imbricate, procure, river, mentor, manufacture and unspoken. Image by Anomaly on Unsplash.
Plumming Issues
My disgruntled spouse surveyed the plum,
squeezed it between palm and thumb,
saw that there were plenty more
in the tree that grew next door,
and though the crop was most abundant,
merely saw it as redundant.
There were no grapes for him to filch.
Bananas? It had proffered zilch.
No oranges or apples to
seed and peel and slice and chew.
No limes or lemons to produce
a glass of fresh-squeezed zesty juice.
It made him sad and rather glum
to see plum after purple plum
hung on the tree. Could I dispute
his claim that we’d have to commute
to steal instead various fruit?
I felt his argument was moot.
One must make do with what might come.
The progeny of plum was plum.
If he required figs or berries,
peaches, kiwi fruit or cherries,
he’d have to head out to the store
or plant a a dozen trees or more.
He’d have to mulch and trim and spray,
water every other day,
and wait for years for fruit to grow,
but he was hungry now and so
he went outside and picked him some
plum after plum and plum and plum.
Not a Love Poem
This is not a love poem. I will not relate those charms
you’ve displaced from earlier boundaries to someone else’s arms.
You no longer fill my daydreams and every random thought.
I’ve cleared my mind of schemes with which it formerly was fraught.
You are not the one I reach for to fill out the night.
Not the one I quote to friends. Your wisdom I don’t cite.
I’ve ripped up all the old words and replaced them with these:
bounder and philanderer, liar, cheat and sleaze.
And now that I have located the words that better fit,
whatever is the opposite of love poem? This is it.
For NaPoWriMo today we are to write a poem that talks about what something is “not.” Image by Engin Akyurt on Unsplash.
Poet Think
The brain is a contraption that hasn’t any muscle.
It depends on other things for its schemes and hustle.
Our skull makes it impregnable by ordinary means,
but inside it’s fat, salt, water, carbohydrates and proteins.
It can be your enemy or it can be your buddy.
Sometimes it’s filled with thoughts profuse. At other times, it’s muddy.
When it plods along its movement is a bit pedestrian,
but on a good day it begins to move with speed equestrian.
Feed your brain and I am sure it will take care of you,
and if you’re lucky every day think up a poem anew!!!!
Prompt words today are muscle, impregnable, equestrian, profuse, mud and contraption. Image by Milad Fakuri on Unsplash.
Working off Calories
Once I’ve xertzed down my dessert and licked clean my plate,
I subject my coffee to a similar fate.
And exhausting my sugar and caffeine allowance,
I nonetheless refuse to state my avowance,
for I cannot quit cold either sugar or coffee—
lattes or chocolate or cupcakes or toffee.
I won’t make a pact to take that big leap
to make empty promises that I can’t keep.
I’m suffused with the shame of these terrible truths:
I’m addicted to donuts and adore Baby Ruths.
Then gulps of coffee between every bite
keep me awake, I admit, every night
which means countless trips from my bed to the shelf
where I keep the means for indulging myself!
And it’s true that I scarf down more delectable treats,
but in my efforts to gather more treats,
I get most of my exercise going and coming,
getting in steps on the way to my yumming.
I Prompt words are cold, pact, xertz, suffuse, allowance and empty. Image by Isumi Daizy on Unsplash.
A Flowery Metaphoric Rejection on a Bad Cold Day
When it comes to heroes, I prefer mine picaresque–
not one that clouds his meanings in terms more picturesque.
“We could make some upbeat music?” Your intent I can’t detect,
so I must entreat you, try to use words more direct.
All my friends have warned me you’re desirous of my hand,
but you seem to seek my membership in some sort of band.
I, too, can speak in metaphors, admiddedly not choral,
for instead of musical, my imagery is floral.
I cannot speak concisely for I have ad awful code.
But as to our conjoining,? Gotta snip it in the node!
(Disclaimer: I had written this all in lingo that sounded like a bad cold, but it seemed indecipherable, so I reverted to just using it in the last two lines.)
Prompts today are upbeat, picturesque, direct, entreat, node and membership.
Also, For NaPoWriMo 13
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 